Obsidian
by Snarkymuch
Summary: Just a maybe one-shot, I think. Kinda dark, but no actual descriptions of rape or abuse in the story. Be warned, it's dark. When Peter is Thirteen, before his powers, he's attacked. This is how Ben and May dealt with it at the time and how the now fifteen year old Spider-Man copes as the anniversary approaches. The one thing he doesn't want is for Tony to know
1. Chapter 1

Peter didn't need a calendar to remind him of the date, to remind him of when it happened. The crisp smell of autumn and the falling of leaves was enough. It twisted his insides. Most of the year, he functioned fine, but it was just these few weeks that he struggled to keep the memories at bay.

May knew the truth about what had happened. She was the only one left in his life who did. She had found a crying Peter in his room, unwilling to answer her questions with more than a nod. She put it together—May was always sharp. Nothing got passed her. He remembered how May had pressed a kiss to his forehead and tucked a blanket around him that night, telling him that it was all going to be okay, that no one would ever hurt him like that again. It just made him cry harder as he thought back to how he didn't fight, how he just let it happen.

He remembered lying in bed that night, hearing his aunt and uncle through the door, hearing their whispered voices arguing in the kitchen. There was something to the way his uncle's voice shook that sent a chill down his spine.

 _You can't stop me … Out of the way, May!_

Then the door had slammed, and he'd heard the soft cries of May, tears slipping down Peter's cheeks as he curled into himself, trying to bury himself in the blankets.

He never did fall asleep that night.

It wasn't until the sunlight began to creep through the yellowed curtains that he heard his uncle return. Peter had slipped from his bed, padding over to the door, peering through the crack. What he saw, he would never forget, and it would forever change how he saw his uncle. The man's knuckles were bloody, and his shirt was stained in splatters of red. He knew something terrible had happened that night, but part of him was thankful. He knew he would never see his attacker again.

Peter had been thirteen before that day, but he would never be again. He'd lost his childhood even before becoming Spider-Man.

He was older now, but he still remembered. He'd never forget.

A Cool breeze blew past, making him shiver. He drew a breath, looking out over the city. It was that time of year again, and he was worried. The memories were sharp, emotions stirring in him. It had been two years. He was fifteen now—a superhero by some definitions. He wondered when he would begin to be able to handle it, to put it to rest. It made him feel weak that the past was still dictating his future.

May was already giving him the sympathetic looks, the unspoken exchanges. He knew she didn't need to hear the details. There was nothing to talk about. It had happened. He was handling it. He was fine.

"Peter, your heart rate is elevated. Are you in distress?" Karen's calm voice broke through his thoughts.

He nearly slipped from the edge of the building, startled. He had forgotten about the AI, forgotten where he was.

"What? No," Peter said, trying to keep the tremble from his voice. "I'm fine."

"Your level of distress appears to be increasing, Peter. I've scanned the area. You appear safe. The next step in my protocol is to alert someone to your condition. Do you have a preference?"

"Karen, I'm good, really. I don't need to talk to anyone, especially about this. Just ... Can you just … I don't know, drop it?" Peter asked, half pleading, half demanding.

There was a beat of silence, and Peter could feel his palms getting sweaty. The chill of the air seemed even more bitter than it was before. He needed to get home and away from the suit. Don't get him wrong. Karen was great, but he didn't need help with this. He didn't need to be monitored through his breakdowns, and he didn't need to draw Mr. Stark's attention.

His heart hammered in his chest. He swallowed thickly. He heard Karen begin to speak again, but he cut her off, not listening. "I'm fine, Karen." He grabbed the mask, ripping it off, gulping the cold, fresh air. He immediately felt better disconnected from Karen's intrusive voice.

"Breathe, Parker," he coached himself. "You got this."

He didn't have this though, honestly. Things weren't going well at all, but he couldn't break. He had to hold it together. His chest started to burn. It was then that he realized he was holding his breath. He relaxed his achy lungs, wiping a hand over his face.

"You're fine," Peter whispered to himself. "It's over. He's gone. It wasn't your fault. He can't hurt you anymore. Get ahold of yourself."

It was like the logical part of his brain knew all the right things to say, but it didn't connect to his emotional side. His emotions still cut him like shards of glass. He sat there, doing his best to talk himself down when his senses tingled.

He looked up just in time to see Iron Man approaching. It was there in seconds, a blur in the night sky. Peter stood and waited for the suit to touchdown. He didn't really expect Mr. Stark to have flown out here in the wee hours of the morning, so he was shocked when the suit opened, and a pajama-clad Tony Stark stepped out. His face wasn't annoyed or angry. He looked concerned and pained, and Peter didn't like the way the expression rested on him.

The mask was still fisted in his hands as he stood and stared at his mentor.

"Peter." His voice was cautious.

"Hey," Peter breathed, meeting Tony's gaze for a moment and regretting it.

"Karen called me."

"I told her not to," Peter said. "I had it handled."

Tony nodded and walked over to the ledge, taking a seat. He fiddled with his hands, finally looking up at Peter. "Karen played back the audio. She kept recording even after you took the mask off. I didn't mean to intrude. I just needed to know you were safe."

Peter felt the air suck from his lungs like he fell in a vacuum.

"I gotta go," Peter said sharply, turning to step away.

"Peter, wait." Tony stood, causing Peter to step back further. "Tell me you're at least okay?"

This was precisely what he wanted to avoid.

He pulled his mask on. "Everything's fine."

And before Tony could get out another word, Peter ran and leapt from the building, swinging and diving, trying to put as much distance as he could between him and that rooftop.


	2. Chapter 2

A week had passed since the night on the rooftop with Tony, and Peter was still mentally berating himself for letting things happen how they had. He should have never gone out in his suit when he wasn't one hundred percent. Two years— _two years_ —Peter had kept his secret, never once slipping, never once letting his pain be heard. He'd screwed up and he knew it.

He wished he could just get over it, but Peter knew it wasn't that easy, even though he was Spider-Man now. The past still tainted everything in his life. He was smart. He knew the symptoms of PTSD. He knew all the reasons it wasn't his fault, yet none of the knowledge seemed to matter. All his self-reassurances just fell into the empty abyss, never enough to fill the void.

May had always told him that talking would help, but the idea was terrifying, like doing so would loosen the bricks of his wall, and they would come crashing down, letting out a flood of pain.

The bell rang, shrill and loud, signaling the end of another day. He grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulders and heading down the hall toward the large double doors of the school. He squinted, stepping out into the bright light.

Ned and MJ were both staying after for a project. They'd invited Peter, but he wasn't feeling up to it. Honestly, he just wanted to be alone in his room. It was a common theme as of late—Isolating. It helped him deal in some strange way. He could sit and stew in the memories, chasing the what-ifs. It was probably unhealthy, but it was his thing—his messed-up way to cope.

He was just about to walk down the steps when he glanced down to his right, seeing the all too shiny, all too expensive car waiting parked by the curb. His stomach dropped. He rubbed his hands against the rough straps of his backpack, standing frozen, unable to move forward, eyes locked on the car. He could feel the other students passing by him, charging down the steps in a whirl, but the only thing he could focus on was the car. It was unexpected. No one had warned him it would be there.

As if on cue, Happy appeared, walking stiffly around the vehicle from the driver's side, looking at the passing kids like they were carrying some contagion. He looked up at Peter, who was still standing on the steps to the building and waved him toward the car.

Peter felt sick, but regardless, his feet moved him slowly forward toward the man. He could quite clearly make out the 'hurry the hell up' face Happy was sporting.

It had been a week since he'd spoken to Tony, only occasionally texting Happy, but overall, he'd avoided the suit, and therefore, patrolling, so there was nothing to really share. In hindsight, avoidance probably drew more attention to himself than if he had simply carried on like usual.

"Kid," Happy said, greeting him as he opened the door.

"Hey." Peter shrugged off his backpack, sliding into the backseat of the car.

Happy shut the door and slid back into the driver's seat. The partition window was down, and Peter could feel Happy's eyes on him, studying him. Peter couldn't help but squirm beneath the gaze. He felt exposed.

"You good, kid?" He tipped his glasses down on his nose to see Peter better.

Everything inside him shouted no, but like a well-trained animal, he nodded. He was always okay even when he wasn't.

Happy slid the glasses back up. "Shout if you need anything. We got a bit of a drive ahead, heading upstate. Tony cleared it with your aunt already. You're spending the weekend."

Peter felt himself pale. He slid back into the seat, his eyes burning, tears close to the surface.

"You sure you're okay?"

He just nodded, grabbing his bag and wrapping his arms around it, resting his face against the rough fabric. He knew he must look like a child, curled up like he was. He heard Happy draw a breath as if to say something, but thankfully he left it alone. A moment later, the car pulled away from the curb, and they were off.

Peter felt like he was headed to the gallows. There was a lead weight sitting heavy in his stomach. He felt sick to his stomach imagining what Tony might know. What if May had said something? The painful thoughts never left him on the ride.

It was dusk by the time they reached the compound. Peter had only been there a few times since Mr. Stark's offer to join the team. Usually, it was short visits to work on the suit, never overnight stays, never weekend retreats.

It was clear. Tony was taking pity on him, or worse, he wanted to ask questions. Everything in Peter was on edge—beyond his spidey senses. Nothing about this felt right. He just wanted to go home, but he knew he had to stick this out. He could handle it—he had to because there was no other choice. He couldn't fall apart here—not in front of their prying eyes.

Happy opened the door and greeted Peter with a weak smile.

Gripping his bag tightly, Peter climbed from the car. The change in the air hit him hard, the rustling of leaves. It made him shiver. It was so familiar in such a terrible way.

"You should wear a coat, kid," Happy said, taking notice. Little did he know, it wasn't the cold of the night air that made him shiver. It was the memories of another darker night that had. If he wasn't already painfully missing being home in his warm room, he was then. The ache he tried to bury felt tangible standing there in front of the intimidating building.

Happy just stared at him for a moment, maybe expecting a verbal answer, but Peter had no intention of giving one. He didn't feel good, and he _definitely_ didn't feel like an idle chat.

"Okay," Happy said, clapping a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Let's get you inside."

Peter tensed. He wasn't sure if Happy noticed the cringe or not. It had slipped by his regulated control. If he had, though, he didn't mention it. Together they walked into the complex.

It was warm inside, and Peter relaxed a little, but he still felt like he was walking to his death, unfortunately not his literal death though, that would be an overall better experience, even if it included something like getting impaled. Being impaled would be better than talking about his past to anyone.

Their footsteps echoed lightly as they walked toward an area Peter hadn't been to before. They came to a wide hallway with doors. Happy guided him to one of them.

"This room is yours," the older man said. "Tony's had it waiting for you for some time now. You know, since he thought you'd be staying permanently."

Glancing up at Happy briefly, he opened the door and stepped inside. It was nearly the size of his whole apartment. He blinked for a moment, trying to take it all in. It was all hard lines and modern furniture—hard edges and cold colors that did nothing to warm him or make him feel at home. He walked to the bed, dropping his bag. He realized he hadn't brought a thing with him other than school books and his suit that he'd stuffed in the bottom of his backpack. He hadn't worn it in days. More reason that Mr. Stark was probably worried and dragging him up there.

He sighed.

"You sure you're alright? You normally don't stop talking enough to get a word in edgewise. I'd thought you'd be bouncing on your heels to be here. What's up?" Happy asked.

Peter donned a fake smile—the best he could manage anyway. "Nothing's up. Just school, and you know, teenage angst stuff you probably don't want to hear about."

Happy rubbed his chin, like he was debating to believe him or not. He had a touch of the same expression Tony had had on the rooftop, that look of saddened worry, and Peter decided he didn't like it much on him either. He wondered what Mr. Stark had told him.

"There's clothes in the dresser," Happy said finally, looking no less concerned. "Everything should fit. Get comfy. Tony will be by shortly. Do me a favor." He looked serious. "Don't go doing any stupid." He frowned. "You look, I don't know, stressed. Remote's on the table. Just watch some TV or something non-angsty."

"Do you know what Tony wanted me up here for?"

"I'm sure he'll explain," Happy said. "Just do what I said. Don't forget Friday's here if you need anything. Tony will be up soon."

Happy left the room, closing the door behind him, leaving him alone in the cold room. He sat on the edge of the bed, clasping his hands in his lap, hanging his head. He swallowed hard against the painful lump in his throat. An angry tear slipped down his cheek. It wasn't fair. He shouldn't have to be there, but all he could do was wait for Tony, and the questions that were sure to come.


	3. Chapter 3

Peter mentally coached himself, reminding himself to breathe. He just needed to keep everything in their boxes, everything tucked away behind the wall. He pushed himself up from the bed, standing and beginning to pace. He felt cold despite the warm air in the room. He rubbed his arms absently.

He walked over to the dresser, pulling open a random drawer, and just like Happy had said, it was full of clothing. He considered changing, but he already felt vulnerable. Peter needed all his defenses for what was to come. He wasn't sure how he was going to get through the weekend.

Not much time had passed before Peter felt a presence outside the door, followed by a soft rap. He swallowed and drew a deep breath, letting it out slow and controlled. He felt cornered and lost in the unfamiliar room.

There was another knock, harder than the last, but this time, it was followed by Tony's low voice. "Peter?"

He bit at his lip, running a hand through his hair, dread spreading through him. His heartbeat kicked up a notch, and his mouth went dry.

Another knock, and Tony's voice again, calling his name.

Peter wanted to answer him, but he found himself suddenly mute. Who said he didn't have self-preservation instincts? For a moment, Peter envisioned webbing the door closed and hiding for the weekend, but he knew that would never work. He had to face the music.

"I'm coming in, okay?" Tony sounded hesitant, snapping Peter's attention to the door.

He rubbed his palms against the denim of his jeans nervously. His mouthed opened to protest, but nothing coming out. Instead, he watched in silence as the door opened, and the casually dressed billionaire stepped inside.

Tony's eyes were fixed on Peter as he stepped into the room. Peter didn't need a mirror to know how he must have looked, flushed face and red-rimmed eyes. He squirmed under his mentor's intense gaze.

"So, how's the teenage angst going?" Tony said finally, breaking the silence.

Peter frowned.

"Happy," Tony said quickly. "Mentioned that you were having some issues."

Peter nodded. "Nothing to worry about."

"Got it handled then," Tony said, pausing. "Like everything else you got handled."

So, there it was, causing gravity to shift in the room. They were doing this.

"I don't want to talk about it." Peter tried to keep his voice level. "If that's what this is about."

Silence hung heavy in the air. Peter shuffled his weight between his feet, his mind racing.

"I can respect that," Tony said softly. "But I want you to know, I'm a decent listener, so I've been told. Anything you say to me will stay between us." His voice was uncharacteristically soft—gentle even like he was afraid of scaring Peter off.

Peter looked away at a piece of art that hung on the wall, eyes transfixed. He felt himself dissociating, drifting away from the conversation. He only did this when his wall was in clear danger of collapse. It let him shut down his senses, turn off the pain, become detached enough that he was nothingness.

"Pete?"

"It was fall when it happened." The words left his mouth numbly. "Two years ago next week actually." His breath hitched. It was then he realized he was crying. When had that happened?

"You don't have to, Peter. I don't want to make you do this." Tony's voice only a whisper. "We can talk later, tomorrow if you want—or never. I'm here, though."

He wondered is maybe Tony was changing his mind about wanting to know. It wasn't fair to lay something so dark on another. His past was like a poison. He could understand if he didn't want to know.

He was still floaty, his mind and emotions a perfect disconnect. "I want to," Peter said quietly. "May always said I should talk about it. That it would help, maybe it's time I try."

"I think maybe we should sit." Tony motioned to the large sofa by the wall.

Peter nodded, walking over and taking a seat, Tony sitting beside him.

"I've got nowhere to be. You can take all the time you need—no rush. Just two buds hanging out if you want."

Tony had a way about putting him at ease. He didn't feel like he wanted to be alone. He felt okay with him there, but what if Tony thought less of him after hearing the truth?

He had to risk it though. It was time he trusted someone. He so desperately wanted someone to know, to forgive him even though he knew it wasn't his fault.

Peter fiddled with his hands, picking at his nails, trying to find the words, and then like a terrible confession, he began, the deepest pains crashing from behind the wall first. There was no going back.

"I didn't fight back," he whispered, the words fell heavy in the silence of the room. "I let it happen." He could feel Tony shift, but he didn't say anything, so Peter continued. "I didn't even scream, no matter how much it hurt. I was too scared—not for myself—but scared someone would see. I didn't want anyone to know." He wiped at his eyes. "I never even planned on telling May, but she figured it out."

There was a brief silence before Tony spoke. "How did she find out?"

He shrugged. "She could always read me. Somehow she just knew, I guess."

"What happened to him?" Peter could hear something in his tone, something familiar. It was the same tone that Ben had used the night it happened—something dark, something dangerous beneath the words.

"Uncle Ben happened."

Peter was wringing his hands now. Tony seemed to know enough not to ask any more questions after that, and Peter was thankful. He felt the wave beginning to overtake him. The air was being sucked from his lungs. He felt like he was drowning.

"Peter, you need to breathe with me," Tony said calmly, his voice nearly inaudible through the thrumming in his ears, his own heartbeat so loud it was deafening. "You're shaking. Focus on my voice, Pete. You're safe. You're with me. It's just the two of us."

Peter did as he was told, listening and focusing on each word, hanging onto them like a lifeline. It wasn't enough, though.

"Peter, can I put your hand on my chest? It'll help me guide your breathing."

Getting enough air still seemed impossible, so he nodded. A warm, calloused hand took Peter's and pressed it to Tony's chest.

"Feel my chest move, Peter. Focus on it."

His hand applied just enough pressure to ground him, giving him something to focus on. Soon his lungs stopped burning, and he was breathing slowed. Peter matched his breathing to the rhythm. This was the closest Peter had allowed anyone other than May since it had happened.

Peter found himself talking again before he could think, but he needed to know. "Mr. Stark, I mean, Tony, can I ask you something?"

"Of course, anything," Tony said. "Open book."

"Are you gonna take the suit?"

"Peter, look at me." His voice was more commanding than earlier, so did as he was asked, meeting his serious expression. "Why would you think I would do that?"

Peter looked down at the floor, shame washing over him. "Because heroes don't just let—"

"Stop. Don't even finish that thought," Tony interrupted. He pinched the bridge of his nose, looking pained. "Peter, first of all, you didn't even have your powers yet—not that matters, and second of all, there is no right or wrong way to handle what was done to you.

"You're a hero for surviving. I had no idea until today just how strong you truly were— _are_. It takes amazing strength to talk about what happened. Things aren't going to get better right away, but if you let me, I would like to be beside you to help you through this."

Peter sucked in a shaky breath. Tony hadn't judged him—he hadn't thought less of him.

Unable to stop it and too tired to try, a sob broke from him, but it wasn't born from pain; it was full of relief. He felt safe, and without a second thought, he turned and wrapped his arms around Tony, burying his face in his shoulder. The older man didn't waste a moment returning the embrace, wrapping his arms tightly around him, resting his cheek on Peter's head.

"It's gonna be alright, kiddo. Let it out. I'm not going anywhere."

And Peter did, letting it all go, and it felt … good.


End file.
